


Anastasis

by ultraviolence



Category: Greek and Roman Mythology
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Eventual Fluff, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Mentions of Sex, Modern Era, Self-Depreciating shit, modern gods
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-31
Updated: 2015-01-31
Packaged: 2018-03-09 20:24:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3263210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ultraviolence/pseuds/ultraviolence
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He had an affair he couldn't break with cigarettes, but she directed all her energy towards drawing and tending her mother's garden, though she thought that she could never get anything right, least of all the shade of his eyes. They all clutched at the old days like it was the last breath of summer, but maybe it's time to let go. A modern gods fic-thing. Second person POV (ish). Oneshot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Anastasis

**i. thanatos**

he’s smoking under the glow of the streetlight. he stopped, once, telling you unironically that it’s bad for your health, then started again, stopped, started, stopped, rinse and repeat, rinse and repeat. it’s an affair he couldn’t break, and you preferred to stay out of it, preferred to make a running joke out of it instead because you’re the only one who can make him smile. in the distance, the city lights gleamed, as if it was a lighthouse for lost souls. you imagined that it was visible from outer space, a desperate calling to the vast blackness that envelopes everything.

above, only the night sky. no more wild and yearless stars, or an atlas of constellations you much longed to see when you were in your father’s halls down below. there is only city lights and street lamps now, and you close your eyes sometimes, pretending that the moon was as big and clear as it was back in the old days.

he casts off the burned cigarette deftly and stubbed it with his toe. you waited for him to light another one, because this is a part of your nightly rituals together – he chain smokes, slowly destroying lungs that could never be destroyed, not yet, while you doodle and sketch endlessly in your journals, erasing and painting and erasing again. you could never get anything right, you think, but it’s a fine way to kill time. sometimes, he stops smoking and trade his seemingly never-ending supply of cigarette with the taste of your lips, or a conversation, and sometimes, you draw and he writes and all was right in the world.

he didn’t light another cigarette. you were too engrossed in what you do, and it’s only when you feel that he was staring at you that you stopped. for a moment, it startles you how deeply familiar the lines of his face was, like the lay of the Underworld (back then when it meant something else and not what it was now), and how odd, how _odd_. you could recall the length of his lashes when you close your eyes, the square of his jaw, the shape of his lips, how his eyes flashed silver under the right sort of light, and how it could easily caught yours from across the room, across cities, continents, _worlds_. he was staring at you with fingers (long, tapered, pianist fingers, you used to tease him) curled around another cig.

“what are you drawing?”, he asked, eyes reflecting the streetlight (and you fancied that you could see that familiar gleam of silver). you smiled, and showed him. he observed it for what feels like forever. “hmm,” he mused softly, putting his cigarette away. “it doesn’t look like me.”

you just laughed at that, and thought that that’s what he always said. he never saw himself the way you saw him (beautiful and vast and endless and so, so heartbreakingly beautiful, you thought, and maybe that’s why the universe reserved him for the very end, because no one could have seen that beauty and lived with knowing such a thing). but one day, you hope, one day, you’ll make him see.

“let’s go back,” he offered, after a moment of silence (and you were busy looking for your best grey marker, because you wanted to get at least the shade of his eyes right this time). “we could continue in my place. i’ve got a draft i wanted to show you. and besides,” he added, flinging an arm around you (it looks careless but it’s not careless because with him, every movement was deliberately calculated, though you think that’s just another synonym for _shy_ ) and bringing you closer. “you’ll get cold.”

under the glow of the streetlight, you can’t help but smile. on the way home, between the music, he asked if you missed the old days. you shook your head and said no.

he wondered why, but you know.

(later on, both of you fall asleep on top of each other before the first light of dawn. you woke up in midday with ten missed calls from your father and ten more from your mother – and several angry voicemails – but instead of responding, you turned off your mobile and stalked back to bed, climbing up beside him. he’s startled awake by your absence, but you settled back in the empty space beside him, and you went back to dreamless sleep. in the afternoon, you had sex, and you forgot at all about the old days, your overly protective parents, or the empty, yawning chasm inside of you. you forgot how it was, without him.)

 

**ii. macaria**

she was the sun and the moon and the tide and the inescapable longing of the poets. you looked at her and you keep thinking to yourself that you know how Icarus must have felt now, that mortal boy, when he was plummeting towards his death. it was not a feeling you can shake off. these days the world felt even larger and lonelier than it was before, and everything left a bitter, slightly fake aftertaste in your tongue, like a bad food whose taste you can’t quite shake off, but she felt real. she felt real and tangible and warm, like your very own personal Isle of the Blessed.

in the early evening, she left with a kiss to your cheek and a _I’ll come back later, my mother is killing me, don’t miss me just yet_ , and because it’s her, you know it’s true. you’ve never been into casual sex or casual relationships that much, not even in the old days, because the amount of bullshit involves sickens you to the core (not to mention the amount of emotions involved), but with her, she never gave you anything but the truth, and that’s alright with you.

you saw her out of the door safely, putting on her coat and offered to drive her to her mother’s place (you forgot in which century Persephone moved out, and you never know the details because Hades refused to tell you, even when you ironically invoked the bro-code, but it happened), but she shook her head and told you that it’s going to be fine. you pointed out that maybe her sister should pick her up, or maybe one of your sisters, if they were in town (though you can’t say you’re delighted by the thought of trusting her into their hands), but she adamantly refused. you reluctantly let her go with a final kiss, and she reassured you that she’ll call and that she’ll be back soon.

you can hardly remember what you did to kill time after she was gone (everything was always a blur when she’s away), but you vaguely remembered finishing a couple of cigarettes (your chosen vice because alcohol always made you throw up, though you’re not above a bottle of vodka and whiskey every now and then) and turning on the television to ward off the silence (you hate noise but you don’t want the silence, ironically, oh so ironically, you thought, pouring yourself some drink). in this day and age, the thought of being alone within these four walls frightens you (which is a funny thought in itself), though you’re not sure if it’s because of her absence or because you’d been lonely for far too long.

either way, it doesn’t really matter, you supposed. you pour yourself another glass and was well on your way on emptying the bottle while being accompanied by Poe and the sounds of the television in the background when she got back. she had a key, which you gave her, and, also ironically, she brought with her the sounds of life. you threw a _welcome back_ her way and the worry lines in her brow instantly deepens when she saw that you’ve been drinking, and you just thought that she looked exactly like her mother like that. but when she throw the rest of the bottle out and kept the rest under lock and key, she was precisely like her father.

but you know better, know that she’s more than the sum of her mother and father and the ichor that flows in her veins. she was all these, and so much more.

“did i ever told you,” she returned to the sitting room with a huff, like a miniature tornado, and you patiently awaited her verdict. “that being an alcoholic doesn’t really suit you?”

“all the time,” you said, reaching for the lighter. “but i never stopped. that’s the point, love.”

she snatched the lighter and pack of cigarettes away from you, and nimbly turned off the TV. stray strands of strawberry-coloured hair made her face seemed livelier (and you thought that that just wasn’t possible), and her obsidian eyes gleamed fiercely (you always thought that it looked so incongruous in such a spring-coloured girl). you brush off her stray hair, and she pushed the book you’ve been reading to your chest. her expression softens, and she moves closer, resting her head in your shoulder. “read me something instead,” she murmured, “or sing me something. it’s been a while since you sing for me.”

you let the silence hung in the air for a while, not reaching for your cigarettes, not reaching or trying for anything at all, just letting yourselves stay in that position, in this moment, for a little bit. you gave her your assent, then, and kissed her softly, your hands finding her waist (that fits perfectly in your fingers) and hers found your neck.

later, you spent the night in bed with her, reading your drafts out loud for her (she said it’s better than Poe, you think she’s lying this time, but you doesn’t press it) and sing songs with her. you’re not sure how or why but you ended up giggling together and laughing, laughing at nothing in particular, and you thought that you don’t miss the old days at all. it’s time to stop beating the dead horse.

“you should come to the garden with me tomorrow,” she said, when she collapsed into your arms. “it’d be nice.”

this time, you agreed with her, and smiled.

**Author's Note:**

> I originally posted this on Tumblr as a response to all the modern gods...thing floating around. It was supposed to be poetry (hence the second person perspective), but it morphed into something more. Regardless, comments / critiques / suggestions are welcome! xx


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